


The Highway Is for Gamblers

by the_dala



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Dark, F/F, F/M, Female-Centric, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Strike another match, go start anew<br/>And it's all over now, baby blue</i>
</p><p>Scarlett and Giselle carve out a life in Tortuga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highway Is for Gamblers

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bob Dylan.
> 
> Originally published August 19th, 2004.

The first time Scarlett meets Jack Sparrow, he doesn't quite make it onto her client roster. He stumbles into the tavern she’s working for the night, skinny and hollow-eyed and looking hardly older than the son she left with her sister in Shannon a lifetime ago. The tale of what happened to him and his _Black Pearl_ has been passed among every man in Tortuga, but Jack speaks to no one. After he’s fair drowned himself in rum, he stumbles out back and proceeds to collapse in a pigpen. She keeps watch over him because she owes Hector Barbossa. Had she known Jack before, she’d’ve warned him against the snake. Well, perhaps not; Barbossa has ways of dealing with them that speak ill of him. The scar across her left temple is testament to that.

The once-captain wakes in the morning with a hangover as bad as his stench, but he’s still got his purse and he’s also got Scarlett there to dump a bucket of water over his head. He addresses her with a strangely gentlemanly speech and they share a cup of coffee – his treat, as they both insist. Once she’s got the tale in its entirety, she lacks the heart to ask him for even a portion of the money she missed by keeping him whole during the night. Luckily business thrives while he’s in town, for men know she spends time with him and are curious to find out what the vagabond is planning on now. She smiles and simpers and shows them a hearty tumble, later telling Jack which inn he should buy a round in and which pockets sag most richly.

A few weeks of her help and he’s collected enough to book passage on a ship bound west of Jamaica. When she asks him what he means to do after that, he shrugs and begins to wax on about the wind and the tides. Scarlett knows only one good way to shut a man up when he starts on the sea nonsense. It’s the first time he’s so much as touched her, although he did kiss her hand that first morning just like she was a real lady.

He treats her nicely in bed, too, not selfish or clumsy or fond of pain like some she’s been unfortunate enough to service. Later she scoffs at her own folly, but in his arms she can remember a time when she could feel, when she _wanted_ to feel, before the means became the end of all her desire to trifle with men. When he leaves, it’s almost a relief for her to go back to the way things really are.

He tries to pay her the usual fee, but she gets a sudden attack of pride and digs in her dam’s Irish heels. Whore though she is, he’s worse off and it wouldn't be right. Jack pretends defeat, but later she finds a thin chain, strung with a fine-cut emerald drop the size of her fingernail, tucked into her stained silk gloves. She thinks about selling it, but she’s not so hard up this month, and it does look rather pretty with her best green dress.

In the following years, he leaves more such trinkets whenever he visits. She pawns them all except for that first gem, which she wears whenever she isn't working. Although Scarlett makes about as much as a girl can in this business, which is scarcely enough to survive on, Jack’s gifts leave her with enough to send a bit to little Peter every now and then. It helps to think on that when she’s had a rough night and nothing to look forward to but the next ship docking.

The blond girl with the French name arrives in town just as Jack does one late October. She starts as a pretty little barmaid with wide eyes and a string of rosary beads wrapped around her wrist, but it isn't long before her pay starts to run short and her neckline takes a plunge. Scarlett and most of the girls have a deep scorn for this type, proud and pious as they tend to be, honestly thinking themselves better than their fellow whores. All cunts look the same to a man, Big Nell says, be they ‘twixt the legs of a queen or a churchmouse. Scarlett laughs with the others, cruising the tavern for the especially careless or the especially generous, while the new woman huddles in a corner and clutches her patched woolen cloak to her thin shoulders.

Jack takes pity on the creature and scolds the girls for being cruel to her. Scarlett is miffed for awhile, until she sees him with the blond on his knee. She giggles when he whispers in her ear, hiding her painted lips behind her palm. Just a man after all; a good sort, all things told, but a man nonetheless. She is neither surprised nor disappointed. He still dangles a topaz brooch before her eyes, and she still lifts her skirts for him in the alley behind her room.

It’s not until the night he leaves that she finds reason to be angry with Jack, and by then it’s too late. For an hour she listens to Anamaria rant about her stolen boat, her wasted opportunities, the pathetic wage she earns toting mugs for Adams, Jack and his goddamned silver tongue. The girl actually cries – took a beating from Mike the tanner without a whimper, never showed a hint of remorse when later she slit the throats of him and his apprentice boy, but over this one little boat the tears fall thick and hot. Scarlett weighs the time it’ll take to comfort her, deciding a warm, dry bed is better than an extra job or two. She slips out the window once Anamaria falls asleep, finding the night’s business in full swing.

The blond mouse is at the Rune – one more woman who’s spent the night cursing the day Jack Sparrow was born, albeit for a different reason. She is starting to curl at the edges, less like her fine hair and more like burning paper. Scarlett downs a glass of ale and goes to her table, a bit unsteady because she’s had little to eat today.

The girl looks up at her. Rimmed in heavy kohl, her eyes are a dark, starless blue. “What d’ye want?” she snaps, Londoner by accent if not by name. There are tight lines at the corners of her mouth and her facepaint has gotten smeared.

“Chasin’ after Sparrow, were we?” says Scarlett with a smirk. Her naturally husky voice is rendered deeper by drink.

The other woman jerks as if she’s been smacked. Hurt and fury vie for attention in her lovely face. “Keep yer freckled nose outta my business.”

Scarlett chuckles as she walks away, swaying her hips for the benefit of the men hoping for a show. Perhaps the chit’ll survive, if she doesn't let men like Jack ruin her first. It’s always the gentle ones a girl should look out for, Scarlett knows.

She doesn't see the girl again for a few weeks, but she shows the same stones when Jack comes back into town. He’s got a pretty, virginal-looking boy in tow, whom Scarlett ignores as she marches up and gives him a wallop on Anamaria’s behalf. She turns back just in time to see the straw-haired tart lay another on Jack, as she’s no doubt been itching to do since his last sweet words faded from her ears. They retreat to opposite ends of the town, though not without exchanging an almost-polite nod.

It’s another month before she sees the lass again. Anamaria is gone, sailing with Jack and his new crew, and Scarlett finds herself wanting for a little female companionship. One of her navy regulars has been by with a fat crown purse for capturing a prize, so she figures a few days’ leisure won’t set her back too far. She chooses dinner at one of the few taverns whose meat won’t be gray and whose rolls she won’t have to pick weevils from. The girl who brings her meal is none other than Jack’s erstwhile strumpet.

Head held high, the younger woman neglects to meet Scarlett’s eyes. Her right eye is bruised, her lips swollen, and her slim neck bears marks the size and shape of fingers. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse and weary. There’s nothing of high-toned reproach about her now, only submission and sadness. Still, Scarlett is pleasantly surprised to see the flash of fire in the girl’s eyes when she grabs her by the wrist.

“What’s your name, girl?”

The young woman's lips purse and her hand flexes under Scarlett’s fingers. “Giselle,” she says, and she lifts her straight nose. “My da was from Paris.” She says it "Pair-ee" like the French do, though it only makes her accent sound more common.

“And who done this to you, Giselle?”

A flush spreads from the fading marks around her throat. “Nobody,” she says, staring at Scarlett’s untouched plate. “Tripped o’er me own clumsy feet. If ye’ll just lemme go?” She pulls back. Scarlett looks a moment at blue veins over delicate bones before she turns Giselle’s wrist loose.

By the time she’s finished supping, the man responsible is obvious enough. The Crown’s owner, a tall man with the florid face of a heavy drinker, is well-known for his taste in blondes. She scowls as she sips her wine, watching Isaac manhandle his new charge on her way to the kitchen. Some say the protection and shelter offered by a man is worth the way he tends to treat his whores. Scarlett, however, feels that they've already got a hard enough time without the added headache of a panderer. She pities the girl, who’ll never be able to work off her debt to Isaac and will probably end up tossed in the harbor by him or one of his cronies. It’s what happened to his last girl; it’s what happens to all his girls.

She isn't sure what makes this one different. Might be Jack’s interest in her – for all that he’s an insufferable cad and she’s cross with him at the moment, it took only one disastrous lesson to make him a good judge of people. Might be that spark in Giselle’s eyes, battered though she is. Hell, it might even be that she feels entitled to spit in the beans when she thinks Scarlett isn't looking.

Scarlett leaves the Crown that night with no real plan, but with a mess of half-formed inklings. Jack once told her she’d a head for command, though she was shite at numbers and he had little faith in her patience for dealing with fools. She doesn't know how true this may be, never really having the opportunity to find out. What she does have, when she wakes the next day, is an idea that could very well get her killed if she doesn't turn it properly.

She finds Giselle at the Faithful Bride, good for its dull roar because it means they won’t be overheard.

The other woman stares at her with jaw dropped. “You’re a madwoman!”

“I'm no such thing,” Scarlett mutters, ducking her head to see if her raised voice was caught. Luckily, it seems no one’s interested in the gossip between two doxies.

Giselle is shaking her head, curls tumbling free. “It’ll never work.”

Scarlett grips her hand tightly, pressing a thumbnail into her palm. “Christ, girl, d’you really want to be slave to Isaac the rest o’ your days? ‘Cause I can promise ye, they won’t be too terribly long if’n that’s so.”

Giselle bites her lower lip, brow furrowing as her eyes suspiciously search Scarlett’s own. “What’s in it fer you, then?” she wants to know.

Scarlett shrugs, feeling the pull of her corset at her ribs. “Tired o’ this game. Gettin’ too old for it.”

“‘F that’s old, may I ne’er reach it,” says Giselle with an unladylike snort. Her eyes linger on Scarlet’s bosom before they’re shuttered by absurdly long lashes.

Trying to hide her pleasure at the grudging compliment, Scarlett arches one eyebrow and tells her, “You won’t. Trust me on that, lass.”

The girl sucks both red lips in over her teeth as she thinks. Scarlett takes a swig of ale and leans back in her chair, looking like she has all the time in the world, though inside she is pacing.

Finally Giselle takes a slow breath and nods. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Scarlett grins at her, pressing her tongue against the gap between her front teeth.

It’s a good thing for them that Isaac is as dumb as he is brutal. Even so, they are careful to stretch out a seeming friendship; Scarlett drops by frequently to chat with Giselle, sometimes brings a customer to dinner at the Crown, does her own share of flirting with the dull-eyed proprietor. Giselle tries her best to curb her tongue and not provoke him. Scarlett can see how it wounds her to give in to him, but tells herself that it’s only for a short while longer. When Scarlett’s batting eyelashes and the way Giselle’s hand goes to her hair or her cheek finally causes Isaac to come up with an answer he likes, nearly a week has gone by.

They play their parts, she the bawdy trollop, Giselle the shy maiden, as they lead him to one of his own rooms. The man’s squinting eyes light up at his good fortune. Giselle’s small hands roam his crotch, her lips pouted prettily. Scarlett takes up her position kneeling behind his head. She looks down into his lusty face and winks. Giselle is still unfastening his breeches while she watches Scarlett’s right hand. A quick tug at her bodice and her breasts spill free, not so pert as they once were, but smooth and round nonetheless. Her eyes drift from the moaning man to the woman crouched at the other end of the bed.

Giselle’s eyes are pits of indigo, flashing in the candlelight. She runs her tongue over her teeth. Scarlett finds it such a distraction that she forgets the plan for just an instant, thumb rubbing over her own nipple as she flexes her thighs together, and she holds that dark gaze till the air seems to crackle in her ears.

A mumbled curse from their third party breaks the unseen bond between the two women. Giselle purrs to him, levering herself down so that she is straddling his hips. Meanwhile Scarlett reaches into her dress, pulls out a silk sash, and winds it twice around Isaac’s head. She flicks the fringed end at his cheek, her giggle almost sincere as she remembers unwinding it from Jack’s waist several years ago.

Sot that he is, Isaac notices little but the rum-fueled lust in his loins and the whore bouncing atop him. When the silk begins to tighten around his throat, his eyes bug out in surprise. He makes a grab for Giselle but she has already backed out of reach, kneeling on his ankles and gripping the sheets as she pins his legs down.

His yell of fury gets shortchanged by Scarlett’s tugs on the sash. She’s on her knees too, keeping the soft flesh of her body away from his grasping hands. His fingers brush along her sleeves without gaining purchase. Scarlett looks at his shoulder, not his face. In her mind she is singing an old Dublin tune in her mother’s high, clear voice. She can’t hear the sounds gurgling in the man’s mouth, nor the thumps as he thrashes on the bed.

She does hear the gasp as Isaac manages to free one foot and kick out weakly. Giselle picks herself up off the floor, comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Scarlett. She rubs her hands on her skirt before she closes her fingers around Scarlett’s own. Together they twist and wend the silk, pulling it until at last the man is still.

Scarlett stares down at him, the purpled face, the tongue protruding past the broken teeth. Take your case to God, she thinks with a shudder. Maybe He’s got some use for you.

Beside her, Giselle is trembling. Tears mar her pale cheeks. Scarlett gently pries her fingers from the silk scarf, rubbing life back into them. Suddenly she is wary; it’s enough to break a woman, no matter what the man did to her in life.

Sucking in ragged breaths, Giselle closes her eyes and wrenches away from Scarlett’s grip. She tilts forward to spit into the dead man’s sightless, bulging eyes, then leans over the side of the bed. Scarlett wraps an arm around her waist and holds her as she retches, humming into her dirty hair.

When next Jack Sparrow sees her, she’s tidying up behind the counter. He slinks up like a dog with his tail between his legs, hands raised in supplication. Scarlett snickers and promises not to slug him again.

“Swear?” says Jack, his bright bird's eyes hopeful.

Scarlett nods solemnly, reaching out to tweak his nose. “On me life, you rogue.”

Mollified, Jack takes a seat at the bar and calls for the best house rum. He does a double-take at the blond woman who brings it from the cellar, nearly tumbling from his stool. Giselle ignores him. She drapes herself over the bar to kiss Scarlett on the cheek, smelling of orange blossom.

“Shoo!” Scarlett flaps a towel at her after brushing a strand of hair out of her blue eyes. “Customers a-waitin’!”

Giselle grins at her. “Miserly wench.” She turns her head to blow a kiss over her shoulder, baring her teeth at Jack in the process.

He twirls his bottle in his long fingers, studying it thoughtfully. “New management in this fine establishment, I take it?”

Polishing the last glass, Scarlett watches Giselle balance a tray on her hip across the room. “Your powers of observation serve you well as e’er they did, Cap’n Sparrow.”

Jack chuckles and reaches out to pull a sapphire ring from behind her ear or, more precisely, his coat sleeve. She smiles at him, knowing that spotting the trick is sometimes half the point.


End file.
